From Russia Without Love
by msmerlin13
Summary: Sent to a foreign country on a critical assignment just weeks before Christmas, Hermione and Draco must figure out how to not only work together, but share a tiny cabin in a rural village. While Hermione can't quite speak the native language, Draco's actions may speak louder than his words ever could.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, Bloomsbury and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended.

Written for BiscuitsforPotter as a Secret Santa Fic.

* * *

Cold.

Bloody freezing cold.

There were few things Hermione hated more than the cold: exercise, water chestnuts, and the word moist—but the cold, especially when she was forced to trudge through it like some sort of yeti, was currently at the very top of her list.

Even lacking a mirror, Hermione knew her nose was bright red, her lips chapped and pale, and the faux fur trim on her ethically designed snow parka was matted. Based on the stares she received from the small children wandering the village, she figured she looked more hag-like than human at this point, but it didn't matter because the end was in sight.

"Hurry up, Granger," Malfoy barked, shooting a hard look over his shoulder. Cold gray eyes peered at her like some sort of bloody male model as opposed to the Ministry lackey he actually was. In the beginning of their careers, she'd often wondered how they'd ended up on the same ambitious path—shouldn't he have been more interested in spending his family money? Or gallivanting the world? Why was he becoming a part of the bureaucratic machine that had sentenced his parents to twenty years of house arrest? It appeared that somewhere deep down in the cold, black heart in the centre of his chest was a small sliver of altruism.

Well, that or he was a sadist who enjoyed long hours, terrible tea, and drafty underground offices.

"I'm moving as fast as I can, Malfoy." Hermione huffed, the vapor from her breath visible in the frigid air, lingering in front of her mouth. "You know, if you had done the gentlemanly thing and taken my bag—"

"You packed it, you carry it," the blond snapped with a roll of his piercing gray eyes, before turning to continue up the small incline to the cabin that sat just on the edge of town.

Seamus would have been better—even with his panache for all things whisky related. Hell, Penelope would have been better, despite her inability to shut the hell up about Percy. But alas, Hermione spoke no Russian, and apparently the only person in their department who did was the blond arsehole strolling through the snow in his bespoke coat and winter boots like he owned the damn town.

Hoisting her bag farther up her shoulder, Hermione knocked her boots together to shake loose some of the frozen on bits of snow before she continued, praying that the Russian Federation of Wizardry employee had at least enough sense to use some heating spells when they'd prepped the cabin for their arrival.

It looked small—and truthfully, shabby, but Hermione learned long ago not to judge anything by its outward appearance. Even the most haphazard lodgings could contain wonders thanks to magic. So, when she approached the front door, frozen fingers fishing the skeleton key from her pocket, she didn't so much as question what would lay inside.

After all, how bad could the lodgings be?

"Are you fucking kidding me?" The words slipped from her tongue before she could prevent them. Inside the shanty—if she could even call it that—sat a patchwork couch, a tri-legged coffee table that looked like it saw the worse end of the cold war, and a single bed.

One.

Or, as they'd say in Russian, один.

"What? What is it?" Malfoy, who had been waiting all too impatiently beside the door, nudged her inside with a rough shoulder. Grey eyes peering around the room before he hissed a low curse.

Hermione stumbled in, fluffy white clumps of snow landing on the threadbare carpet, and she dropped her bag from her shoulder, eyes still roving around the room, taking in the cobwebs that clung to the ceiling, and the moth eaten curtains.

"Is there… another room?" Malfoy was moving in behind her, the steady thump of his footsteps following her into the small space.

"How the bloody hell would I know?" Hermione looked over her shoulder, brows furrowing. "Check that door." She lifted her hand to point across the room, before withdrawing her wand from her pocket and moving towards the fireplace.

A stack of logs sat on the hearth, untouched, but thankfully dry. Grabbing three, she set them on the grate, casting an _Incendio_. Warming her frost-bitten hands by the flame, she glanced over her shoulder, watching as Malfoy opened the door to reveal a tiny linen closet.

"This is—this is not going to work," he huffed, moving towards the only other door in the cabin with a newfound purpose, as if there would be some sort of hidden bedroom he'd find in his quest instead of what they both knew was behind door number two. "This is _unacceptable_. I can't stay here."

"Oh? And where else would you suggest we go?" Hermione stood up, tucking her wand back up her sleeve into its holster. "Because I hate to break it to you, Malfoy, but there is definitely no Four Seasons in rural Russia."

"Four Seasons? I'm not entirely sure what the bloody weather has to do with how this cabin is a doxy infested cesspool, but I'd rather not get into whatever Muggle rubbish you have going on inside that thick head of yours, Granger."

If her eyes could roll back any farther in her skull, Hermione was almost certain she would see her fucking brain. Biting the inside of her cheek, she took a slow drag of the musty air, reminding herself that yes, this assignment was critical, and yes, murder was as illegal in Russia as it was in England. "It's a hotel."

"What?"

"The Four Seasons… It's a Muggle hotel."

"Oh. Did you see one?"

"Are you kidding me, Malfoy? Of course I didn't see one! I saw the same bloody thing you saw coming in.: a butcher, some toy shop, what appeared to be a taxidermy place next to that apothecary, and an owlery." Hermione's fists clenched at her side, her jaw setting as she watched Malfoy yank open another door to reveal a small bathroom—only to slam it shut with a small growl.

"No need to get snippy! I was just asking." Turning around, Malfoy crossed his arms, lips pursing at her from across the room, and although she couldn't be certain from this distance, she would have sworn she could make out a distinct tremble of tension in his jaw.

"So, this is it then? This fucking cabin for the next three days?" He gestured around them, grey eyes flickering with increasing frequency from wall to wall, as if something new might appear if he just looked hard enough.

She didn't bother with a reply, because truthfully there was absolutely nothing she could utter that would make this situation any better for either of them. Instead, she lifted a brow, lips thinning as she channeled her best inner McGonagall.

Flecks of dust shimmered in the soft winter light that bled through the shoddy curtains, highlighting just how utterly filthy their borrowed living space was. Hermione watched as Malfoy did little to contain his emotions as he took in their accommodations—the mismatched furniture, the wonky coffee table, and finally the bed.

The_ only_ bed.

And just as suddenly as her annoyance with her coworker had appeared, the realisation that only one of them could claim the bed while the other would be relegated to the couch hit her like a rogue bludger, smashing right through her indignation.

She moved, toeing around the edge of the table, eyes flicking nervously between the simmering wizard and the bed. She couldn't sleep on the couch, there was a damn spring visible. And Merlin only knew what it would do to her already achy back. Healer Jacobsen had told her that she had the bone density of an aging hag due to the after effects of the Cruciatus. There was no bloody way in hell she would risk a good night's sleep just to appease the princess and the pea.

It seemed that however sly she _thought_ she was, Malfoy was more cunning.

As soon as she started edging closer, his eyes widened with comprehension and he began a wide legged jaunt towards the bed, clearly intent on claiming it at his own first.

"No, no, no!" Hermione ran—no, sprinted—across the room, practically vaulting over the side table in an attempt to make it to the bed first. Her heart beat erratically, pounding so loud she was sure he could hear it.

Malfoy shouldered her, nearly causing her feet to slide out from under her, and just as they were _almost_ there, his body a mere inch in front of hers, Hermione grabbed onto the back of his hood. Yanking him backwards as hard as she could, she propelled herself forward to land with a less than graceful bounce on the too springy mattress. "HA!"

Malfoy stumbled backwards, tripping over his own dragonhide boots and landing firmly on his arse, gray eyes wide with what Hermione hoped was shock at her shrewd prowess, but looked more akin to fury.

"You—you _can't_ just—that's cheating!"

"Says the wizard who tried to side tackle me!" Hermione crossed her arms over her bust, brows lifting as she watched his face crimson. "Besides, I'm a bloody _woman_, Malfoy. Haven't you heard of chivalry?"

Pushing off the floor, he brushed his hands across his trousers, grimacing at the dust patterns it left behind. "You're about as much of a woman as my bloody left hand, Granger."

"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

Grey eyes lifted, and for a moment, she swore she could see the wheels turn inside his mind, twisting and churning, venomous words poised on the tip of his tongue. But just as quickly as the fire appeared, it flickered away. Closing his eyes, Malfoy rolled his head, a sharp series of cracks echoing around the sparsely filled cabin as he reigned in his runaway emotions.

"Nothing..," he murmured with a heavy breath before his eyes opened once more to reveal a decidedly more calm and composed version of himself. "Take the bloody bed, see if I care."

"Oh, I intend to." Hermione didn't move, watching as he serpentined his way across the room towards the couch, lip lifting in a sneer as he examined the furniture. Withdrawing his wand from his pocket, she could only assume he was attempting to clean and transfigure the couch into something more comfortable.

"I'll warn you now…" he began, pushing up the sleeves of his coat to reveal toned forearms, thick veins bulging with each subtle flex of his wrist as he directed his cleansing spell on the furniture. "If I wake up with a kink in my neck, it'll be your head I chew off before our meetings."

Despite being an utter prat, Hermione couldn't deny the strange affect watching him work had on her—stomach clenching, a forbidden heat pooling between her thighs. The heat that radiated from the fireplace felt _too _warm.

She didn't _like_ Malfoy—how could she?

But as she sat on the bed, she watched him direct his magic with a steely determination, long fingers curled around his wand, forearms rippling under the tension of controlling his magic—and, well, even _she _couldn't deny his appeal.

Three days.

She only had to share this tiny living space with him for three days.

Three bloody days in rural Russia to sign this deal. Then she could go about the rest of her life pretending he wasn't attractive.

Just as she'd done since fifth year.

* * *

Three days—three bloody days.

That was how long this trip was _supposed _to last. If Draco were the laughing type, he might have actually found humour in the fact that they were on day five of negotiations with no potential end in sight.

But he wasn't.

And Granger certainly wasn't—least of all after today's disastrous meeting.

"You're supposed to be the bloody translator, Malfoy! How could you possible bugger this up so bad?" She hadn't stopped spewing venom at him since the moment Yaromir had kicked them from his shop nearly twenty minutes prior.

"I never claimed to be an expert."

"You said you were fluent!"

"I said I _knew_ the language." Draco shot Hermione a hard look, one that would have previously rendered the curly haired swot silent, but now, after five days of constant companionship, it only resulted in her rolling those pretty whisky coloured eyes that he couldn't bloody stop thinking about.

And that was precisely the problem, wasn't it?

Hermione _I-Never-Bloody-Shut-Up_ Granger was his issue. She was the reason he flubbed the translation and ended up telling the Apothecary's owner that the Ministry would only pay ten galleons per sack as opposed to one hundred. Because while, yes, Draco was versed enough in the Slavic language to know the difference between ten and one hundred, he had been watching _her _across the table.

The way she'd twist the quill between her ink splattered fingers.

The way she'd tug at her curls when she lost herself in thought.

The way her upper lip had a perfect cupid's bow he wanted to trace with his tongue.

The way she looked in those fitted jumpers, hugging every damn curve like if it wasn't a second skin, it wouldn't keep the cold out.

And Merlin help him, when she put her quill between her lips, hints of her pink tongue flashing across the pointed tip, Draco nearly came undone.

Because although it had been bloody _years_ since he'd thought about Granger in _that _sort of sense, he was clearly no closer to getting over his boyhood crush than he had been nearly a decade prior. She was, by all intents and purposes, the forbidden fruit, the pear—or was it an apple?—in his garden of eden, or whatever Muggle rubbish it was. She was everything he was not supposed to want.

Muggleborn.

Messy.

Stubborn.

And yet, beautiful.

Hermione had been the epitome of teenage rebellion, everything he wasn't supposed to desire, which had made his crush that much more intense. Of course, by the time he'd come to realise the stirring in his pants every time she drew near during fifth year was a result of infatuation and not anger, the framework for the war had already been set in motion.

Their lives had changed— unequivocally—neither for the better.

The war had ushered a darkness into his heart that he wasn't quite sure he'd ever be able to truly rid himself of, but Salazar's sack, he was fucking trying.

Which is exactly how he found himself here.

In Russia.

With Hermione _I-Wear-Too-Tight-Denim_ Granger.

He'd stupidly took the Gagana Feather trade negotiation assignment after hearing something about the feather being the key ingredient in Nott's newest balm that was being used to treat Cruciatus curse victims. Merlin only knew his family was responsible for at least _some_ of those in treatment.

When he accepted the assignment, he'd known he'd have to work alongside Granger, but never in his wildest dreams had he thought he'd be shuttled off to rural Russia with the witch, and moreover, sharing a tiny bloody cabin with her.

Yet, here he was.

Living out some alternate version of his childhood fantasy.

Trying desperately not to make a noise during his morning shower wank and give away his wayward feelings.

"We're two days over and based on the fact that Yaromir literally shoved us out of his shop, I doubt we'll have any luck requesting an audience tomorrow." Her cheeks were pink, the cold biting at her sun-kissed skin, and based on the way she shivered, despite wearing that hideous overcoat, it seemed she still wasn't used to the frigid winter air. "Christmas is next week, Malfoy, and while you may not have plans, _I do._ I've very much like to see my—"

Draco spun around, dragonhide boots sliding across the freshly fallen snow as he closed in on her, marching until they stood toe to toe in the middle of the street. "For your information, I _do _have obligations to meet at well. If you think I want to spend one more bloody second in this damn village with you of all people, you are sorely mistaken. Now, for the love of all things that are right in the fucking world, could you please do us both a favor and shut the fuck up?" His nostrils flared as the confusing maelstrom of indignation and desire raged inside.

He wanted to shout—to remind her it was an accident and she didn't need to be so bloody petulant. He wanted to tell her off for being so bloody rude.

But he also wanted to snog her. To curl his fingers into that thick mess of curls and steal the very breath from her lungs. He wanted to force her compliant under his touch—make her scream his name and take back all the nasty things she'd ever said.

Her mouth opened and closed several times, as if trying to find the ire needed to convey the fury that was so clearly brewing. His eyes flickered from hers, watching as her tongue swept across her chapped lips, and he bit the inside of his cheek, fingers flexing as he fought back the impulse to devour her whole.

He shouldn't.

He couldn't.

He—

"какая прекрасная пара."

His eyes snapped across the street towards the source of the disruption. An old crone lingered on her stoop, a cat tucked under her arm while a shaggy white dog sniffed around the snow-covered lawn. Beside her, an equally decrepit man stood, blue eyes twinkling at them. "страстные. Вы не видите этого в молодости сегодня."

_Couple?!_

Ha!

They weren't—they would _never._

Draco shook his head, logic smashing through the clouded fog of stupid desire, and he turned on his heel, marching away from Hermione at a long legged pace he was certain she would never be able to keep up with—especially in the snow.

"Malfoy!"

He needed to put distance between them.

"Malfoy! I wasn't done talking to you!"

He needed to get away from her.

"Malfoy, come back here!"

He needed to go take a long, hot, shower—complete with silencing charms.

* * *

Christmas was in four days and Hermione had absolutely nothing ready.

No cookies baked. No presents wrapped—hell, she still had yet to purchase gifts for the most important people in her life. The same people that would fill her flat's living room in less than a week's time.

Under normal circumstances, she would have been amply prepared for the holiday. She would have had her gifts bought weeks ago, and had them neatly wrapped beneath her tree with pretty hand curled bows atop each one.

But this Christmas was the first in which she could recall not feeling particularly _joyful—_not when she was so bitterly alone.

Harry was with Ginny. So happy. So proud. They'd just had baby James in the spring and were already talking about expanding their family again.

Ron had found a wonderful partner in Susan, and although they were not yet wed, their own arrival was due any day now.

After so many years of friendship, Hermione woke up one morning that fall and realised her boys were no longer her own.

Not that they had ever been, but now they were men. They had families of their own to look after, obligations that didn't involve Flooing to her house in the middle of the night when Crooks came home with a mouse.

And she had… nothing.

She'd dated since the war's end, but nothing serious. She'd always found a reason—some nagging, stupid, trivial thing that she simply couldn't look past.

Viktor was kind, but far too needy for someone whose job kept him halfway across Europe at any given time.

Michael was a generous lover, but a bore outside of the bedroom.

And Charlie? Well, Charlie came with a too-familiar last name and a dragon obsession she simply couldn't compete with.

So, here she was, halfway through her twenties with a great job, a lovely brownstone in Chelsea, an aging cat, and no love life to speak of.

She tried to get over it. She made mulled wine and went to look at holiday lights one evening, but it was all for naught, she couldn't seem to put herself in the holiday spirit. And now, to make matters worse, she was stuck in a foreign country with Malfoy—of all bloody people.

But she needed to finish her shopping because Merlin only knew when they'd wrap up this trade deal.

With that task in mind, she'd donned her warmest clothing and made her way to the end of the block to the little wooden toyshop in hopes of being able to find _something_ to give her pseudo-nephew and unborn niece.

The soft jingle of the brass bell signalled the store keep of her entrance, and Hermione lifted a hand in a friendly wave as she brushed her boots off beside the door, knocking the excess snow free. Unzipping her coat, she shrugged out of the heavy garment, draping it over her arm to reveal a cream and burgundy Fair Isle knit jumper.

She muttered a soft greeting, the foreign language clunky and harsh as it tumbled off her tongue—so unlike her coworker who seemed to speak the language with an enviable elegance.

The shop's aisles were lined with wooden toys and trinkets. Items ranged from beautiful hand polished jewelry boxes to wooden ships with little canvas sails. As she moved deeper into the store, the earthy musk of cedar mixed with the sharp sting of lacquer finish, covering the scent of the smoldering logs that blazed in the fireplace.

Her mind wandered as she took in the wares, a soft smile ghosting her lips as she picked up a small wooden duck, running her finger across the beautifully carved back of the bird. Would baby James play with a duck? What did six month olds play with exactly? She was far from experienced with children, and having no siblings of her own to speak of, she couldn't call upon distant memories to help fill the void in this gap of knowledge.

A flash of white blond hair pulled her attention away from the carved object, and she peered between the cracks in the shelving, watching curiously as Draco knelt down in front of a small child.

He spoke in hushed tones in their native tongue, and although she couldn't clearly understand a damn thing he said, it was so evident what was happening.

The girl was crying, big green eyes dripping with tears, a broken doll in her hands. At the end of the aisle, opposite from where Draco and the young girl stood, two rambunctious boys played with trucks, smashing them together, tiny explosions echoing towards them.

Her breath caught in her throat, blocked by a slow forming lump as she watched him remove his glove to brush the girl's tears from her cheek before taking her doll. His palm dwarfed the well-loved toy, but he held it with a tenderness that both shocked and amazed her, and when he withdrew his wand, casting a repairing spell to reattach the torn limb, she felt her heart quiver.

She'd never known Malfoy to be kind, never known him to take the time to help anyone other than himself. But as she watched the little girl throw her thin arms around him, hugging him tight as a gapped-tooth smile spread across her little face, she couldn't help but wonder if this random act of kindness wasn't so random at all.

Based on his return hug, the laughter that lined his words, and the way his eyes shimmered with happiness as he watched her return to join her brothers, cradling the repaired toy against her chest, she knew that this wasn't new for him. That this act—altruistic and pure—was likely something he'd done with other children before.

He pushed off the floor, hands brushing the wood dust from his trousers as he rose to his full height. For the first time in… well, ever, Hermione allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe she had been _slightly_ misinformed about the wizard he had grown into.

Clearing her throat to give away her presence, Hermione moved to the end of the aisle, popping her head around the bend so he could see her, before she slipped past the animated children. "That was kind of you—repairing her doll."

The happiness that had been so clear on his features faded, a mask of empathy dropping into it place, and Draco tucked his wand back in his pocket, eyes dipping to look at the lowest shelf beside him. "Yeah… well, someone needed to stop her crying."

"Uh huh." Hermione smirked, her arms crossing over her bust as she leaned her shoulder against the shelf, watching as he picked up a small sailboat and examined it with a level of scrutiny that felt far too important for one looking at a wooden toy. "It's okay to be kind, you know? Especially to children. I won't ruin your image by telling anyone."

"My image?" The words were laughter, except it wasn't harsh or tinny. No, it was a genuine laugh. Like one she'd heard from Harry or Ron after she said something clever. A heartwarming, smile birthing, genuine laugh. And when he brought his eyes back to hers, the corners of his lips _were_ lifted—just barely, but the hint of a smile was present.

"Yes, you know." She lifted her hand in a small roll, trying to suppress her own growing grin. "Dark, broody… temperamental."

"Ah, yes. Pureblood despondency is the preferred term."

"Precisely." Hermione nodded in agreement, but could only keep her face straight for so long because her own tinkle of laughter danced off her tongue. Leaning back on the shelf, she bit her bottom lip to still her laughter as she slipped her hand in the front pocket of her denim trousers. "So… what are you doing here? I mean, aside from toy repair."

"Well, I _am _a certified Doll Healer, so I go where my services are needed. It's in my Hippocratic Oath, you know?" He moved opposite from her, long legs crossing at the ankle as he leaned against the shelf. "But, apart from my side gig, I was actually here to see if I could find something for Posey."

Posey… Why did that name sound so familiar?

Hermione's brow furrowed, head cocking to the side in silent question.

"My god-daughter," he clarified. "Theo and Pansy's oldest."

"Oh… _Oh!_" Of course! How could she forget? The Parkinson-Nott child's arrival had been something of a scandal in the wizarding world just three short years ago. Theo had been betrothed to another witch when Pansy fell pregnant, and well, _The Daily Prophet_ had never been kind to Hermione, and it appeared they hadn't pulled any punches when it came to Pansy Parkinson either. "I didn't—they have more than one?"

"Well, they will in about two months—give or take." The corner of his lips lifted. "But I doubt you'll hear much about it this time around. Their relationship is far less interesting now that they're married and live in the country."

"I can imagine. Who wants to read about domesticity?"

"Certainly not I. Truthfully, they're kind of a bore—all garden parties and recitals." Though his words were harsh, his feather light tone gave way to the truth. He cared for them, just like she did Harry and Ron, but it was when he spoke of his god-daughter that she could see the depth of his devotion to the little family. "If it weren't for Posey, I would hardly grace their manor's front porch. But, alas, someone needs to teach her the proper way to host a tea party."

"Tea party?" She could hardly contain the disbelief that impregnated her words. Malfoy… tea parties? Had hell frozen over? Did fire crabs have wings?

Draco nodded, his brows lifting to convey a playful importance in his words. "Absolutely. Have you ever been to one of Pansy's tea parties? She's an atrocious host. Never once did she offer Mister Bear a finger sandwich. It my duty—no, _obligation_—as her godfather to ensure she understands proper tea party etiquette."

Her hand rose, fingers pressing against her lips, and before she could stop herself, a fresh wave of laughter bubbled up her throat. She shouldn't have laughed—it was really quite sweet, but suddenly the image of Draco sitting at a tiny table, hunched over, sipping from plastic floral cups of tea in an oversized bonnet (akin to one Augusta Longbottom would wear) entered her mind and she simply couldn't _unsee_ it.

Tears sprung to the corner of her eyes as her laughter grew louder. Her arms moved to wrap around her middle as her stomach spasmed. "S-sorry. I… _ha!_ Oh gods—I'm s-sorry!" She gasped as leaned more heavily on the shelf, using it to help support her.

Draco, thankfully, found humour in her inability to contain herself, and soon the soft baritone of his own chuckle joined hers. And for what felt like minutes, they stood tucked away at the back of the tiny little toy shop, allowing the carefully constructed walls that had defined their working relationship to begin to crumble.

By the time her laughter faded, and the idea of Malfoy partaking in tea parties seemed almost rational, Hermione found herself interested in what _other _things about the wizard she had gotten wrong. Clearly, he'd changed—sure, he was still an arse to work with, still condescending and curt—but now that she thought about it, it had been ages since he'd hurled a barbed insult her way.

"Well, now that you've discovered my hidden talents, maybe you should tell me what _you're_ doing here?" His voice seemed… kinder, almost more melodic as he spoke, and Hermione lifted her eyes from where she'd been boring holes into the tops of his boots to find his gaze resting upon her.

Grey with that beautiful silver lining.

Like the sun poking through a rain cloud.

Her heart quivered under the weight and she had to tell herself the reaction meant _nothing,_ and the unmistakable sparkle of interest in his irises was simply a trick of a poor lighting. "I… uh. I need to buy a gift."

"Well I've gathered that much." Draco nodded his head, tongue pressing into the tip of his canine. "For whom?"

"James… Harry and—"

"Ahh, Potter's offspring. He's about… six months old now, right?" His head cocked to the side, eyes drifting towards the ceiling as if doing some arithmetic to calculate her god-son's age.

Draco knowing about James shouldn't have surprised her—he _was _the Boy-Who-Lived's first-born, after all. But the fact that he was able to guess his approximate age, and seemed interested in it, was shocking. In a good way, of course—if that was possible.

"Uh… eight, I think. He was born over Easter hols," Hermione explained with a nod, tongue sweeping across her lips.

"Well, I hardly think anything in this area would be appropriate for an infant, Granger." He pulled his hand from his pocket, gesturing to the shelves around them that contained little trucks, boats, and animal carvings.

Hermione blushed, eyes drifting to the toy-lined shelves and she lifted her shoulders in an almost defeated shrug. "Honestly? I know absolutely nothing about babies," she confessed in a low whisper.

Draco nodded, his lips pressing together to suppress a grin as he glanced up and down the aisle, as if to make sure the coast was clear, before he leaned towards her, bending at the waist so he was eye level with head instead of a full six inches taller. "I'm fairly certain that's not a secret considering you almost dropped him at the Merlin's Day celebration."

"I did not!" Hermione gasped, her jaw dropping, eyes widening.

Draco's hands went up, eyes lifting innocently as he straightened his spine. "Those weren't _my words_, Granger_._ I am fairly certain that everyone in the atrium heard you when you handed him off to Weaslette—_Sonorus_ is quite sensitive."

Her eyes fluttered shut, and she lifted a hand to rest against her forehead, fingers curling along her brow so her palm shielded her face as she let out a low groan. It was far from her shining moment as James' god-mum, and as much as she loved babies—Which she did! Endlessly!—she was positively hopeless with them.

They were floppy and… and boneless. Like an awkward sack of potatoes that liked to throw its head around at random moments.

"Oh gods," she groaned. When Malfoy only laughed at her embarrassment, she spread her fingers to peek up at him. "Was it that bad?"

"It wasn't great," Malfoy teased, a hand carding his blond fringe back across his forehead. "But… you're in luck. In addition to my Doll Healer license, and hosting prowess, I also happen to be quite good at gift selection—_especially _for the five and under crowd."

Her hand lowered from her face, teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she watched Draco push off the shelf. Heavy boots thumped against the floor as he began down the aisle, a smile twinkling in his eyes when he glanced over his shoulder to her, lifting his hand to wave her along after him. "Come along then. We don't have all night."

Hermione nodded, pulled from her momentary reverie, and she moved after him, past the laughing children, past the old greying shopkeep, and down the farthest aisle from the door. Just a few steps behind, she watched Malfoy who seemed to be inspecting a small set of wooden blocks with pictures of farm animals carved into the sides.

"This would be a good choice. He could chew on them now, and when he's a bit older, use them to make buildings that he'll smash down with dragons." He tapped the set thoughtfully, glancing over to Hermione with a confidence that seemed so natural.

"Thank you for… for helping me."

"Anytime."

Reaching out, she ran her finger along the soft wood, letting the grain slide beneath the tips as she examined the set.

Who would have ever thought Draco Malfoy was good with kids? Wait, not just good, apparently bloody brilliant. And as she took the tray of blocks off the shelf, tucking it securely against her chest so none of them fell on the way up to the front, she couldn't help but wonder what else about him might surprise her.

* * *

**Translation notes:**

**1\. один** – one  
**2\. какая прекрасная пара** – what a lovely couple  
**3\. страстные. Вы не видите этого в молодости сегодня **\- passionate. You do not see this in youth today

* * *

**Author's Note:**

First and foremost, endless thank you needs to be given to Dreamsofdramione. She helped me figure out this crazy plot, and encourage me to return to a pairing I haven't explored in a long-long time. AND THEN, she made my words make actual sense by being the universe's best beta.

Secondly. BiscuitsforPotter—I simply adore you and when I found out you were my pairing, I couldn't contain my excitement! I really—REALLY hope you enjoy this little world I've crafted for you. 3

Side note. I do not know Russia, I do not speak Russian, and google translator helped me in this fic. Please forgive me if it's wrong if you are a native speaker!

Chapter two will be up before the end of the weekend, my dear.

Happy Christmas.

until next time. xx


	2. Chapter 2

Warning: This chapter is NSFW

* * *

Negotiations had begun to level out, thankfully. Yaromir had refrained from kicking them out today, and even grunted in approval when Draco presented him the Ministry's latest offer. In an effort to smooth over his error, Draco had been able to convince Kingsley to agree to one hundred and five galleons per sack of Gagana feathers, but only with an off the record promise of a sizable donation from the Malfoy family vaults.

With the offer in Yaromir's hand, the ball—so to speak, was in court.

Now the real wait began.

They needed the grumpy wizard to sign, preferably before Christmas, but they were far from being in a position of power. The Ministry _needed_ those feathers and Yaromir knew it.

Which meant all they could do was wait and pray to the old gods that he might see Galleons that would line his pockets as enough incentive to agree to their terms.

After leaving the Apothecary, Draco had spent the remainder of the day at the cabin in solitude. His relationship with Granger seemed to have changed for the better over the course of the week—what had started out as pure torture seemed to fall into the realm of, dare he say it, _friendly_.

She smiled at him.

Laughed at his jokes—no matter how poor they were.

She even touched his arm the other evening on the couch. He hadn't thought about it when it happened, the act seemed so natural neither of them paused, but as he laid on the couch, listening to the soft sound of her breathing as she slept just on the other side of the room, the memory stood out like a sore thumb.

The trip had started out so poorly, but now… well, maybe now it wasn't _so_ bad.

Though, if he made it home without his dick falling off due to excessive wanking, it might be a bloody Christmas miracle.

Moving through the village, Draco dodged the small group of children he'd come to know over the past week and a half, narrowly tripping over their aged quaffle that rolled through the snow. He playfully jeered at them, nudging the ball back with the tip of his boot, and made a mental note to order them a new set from Quidditch Weekly when he returned back to England.

He made it to the small tavern that sat on the opposite edge of town, and upon entrance, the savoury smell of what he could only assume was some type of roasted meat filled his senses. It reminded him of his childhood, sitting in his great grandmother's kitchen, watching as the frail witch moved about, directing the sauce pans and plates like a conductor would an orchestra.

With a rumbling stomach and a fond memory of eating pyrizhky, he slipped from his coat and looked about the room to find an empty table he could claim as his own for the evening.

"Malfoy!"

The familiar feminine tenor pulled his attention across the busy room, and he watched her wave towards him with a friendly smile already plastered over her face. She was in a tight brown jumper, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Wild curls were pulled back in a crown braid, though the tiny wisps that lined her forehead still remained rebellious.

He lifted his hand in a return wave, but when she motioned him towards her, her perfect lips parted in that carefree laugh that he couldn't hear but knew so well now, his heartbeat increased.

This was nothing.

Just her being friendly. Because maybe that's what they were now_—friends._

Friends ate dinner together.

He often ate with Theo and Pansy, and surely she'd shared a meal with Scarhead and Weasel over the years. Simple friend stuff—something he was one hundred percent totally capable of.

"I was beginning to wonder when you'd show up." She scooted over on the bench seat, pushing the canvas bag that had claimed the space next to her on the floor before she patted the wood. "I hope you don't mind I ordered dinner already. Gave me a chance to practise my Russian and they were getting rather busy. This might surprise you, but this is the only tavern in about a hundred kilometers from what Nadia told me."

"Nadia?"

"Yes, the hostess." Gesturing across the room, Hermione pointed to a gruff redhead witch that had nearly snapped his head off earlier in the week when he'd asked for a salt shaker. "She was very keen to practise her English earlier, so I helped her a bit and in turn, she helped me."

Lowering to the seat, Draco nodded lamely at her. Granger's ability to make friends with even the most surly of folks would have been impressive had he not been so dumbstruck. They'd been in this bloody village for over a week! She could hardly communicate with them and yet she seemed to already have some sort of fan club!

On their morning walks to the Apothecary, she'd wave her hellos, and in the evenings, she'd arrive with baskets of freshly baked bread and hand-knit scarves and mittens. It didn't _really_ bother him, but there was an overbearing protectiveness that nagged at the back of his consciousness, wanting to tell her to stop being so bloody approachable. They hardly knew any of these villagers, and while yes, he had a small rapport with the youth that played in the street, he certainly wasn't joining people for cups of tea—or whatever they drank this close to the top of the bloody world.

Shaking his head, Draco couldn't prevent the small laugh that slipped from his throat and he set his overcoat beside him, careful to drape it over his thigh so it didn't fall to the dirt-covered floor.

"Well, thank you—I suppose? I might need to forewarn you though, mother always told me I was a picky eater so I might end up ordering something else."

Hermione snorted, dismissing his claim with a small roll of her eyes before she picked up the steaming mug that sat in front of her.

"We'll see."

She spoke the words as if there was some sort of challenge. Like she would win some prize by picking out the perfect meal, and despite the most recent change in their relationship, Draco couldn't help but want to prove her wrong. Some large part of him, despite being an adult, was still that competitive little brat who leered at her from across the Great Hall.

Unfortunately—or fortunately depending whose opinion was asked—the meal that was set in front of him left him unable to complain.

A plate of roasted lamb and some sort of root vegetable was set in front of him alongside a tall glass of dark brown ale. His brows slowly lifted, mind swirling with curiosity as he turned to look at Granger who was already beginning to tuck into her own meal—a large bowl of brightly coloured soup.

With the spoon already to her lips, she blew softly across to cool the temperature before she took a tentative sip.

How had she known? She could have ordered _anything_ and gotten it wrong a million times over. He didn't enjoy chicken, but duck was acceptable. Never pork and only certain cuts of beef were allowed. But lamb? Lamb was his favorite.

As if she could feel his eyes on her, Hermione turned, brows furrowing. "What?" Grabbing the paper napkin from beside her, she dabbed her lips free of the brightly coloured broth, splotching red across its pristine surface.

"Nothing." Draco shook his head, pulling his eyes back down to his plate and picking up his fork, piercing one of the smaller vegetables.

But it wasn't _nothing_. This wasn't some sort of trivial act.

Hermione _Former-Adversary-Pending-Friend_ Granger had ordered him dinner and gotten it right.

He wasn't even certain Theo and Pansy could have done that, and he'd known them since they were all in nappies.

Setting his fork down, it clattered sharply on the chipped porcelain plate, and he shifted on the bench to angle his body towards her. "How did you know?"

Granger jumped, nearly spilling her spoon of soup down her jumper at the sudden change. Delicately placing her utensil down in her bowl, she looked up at him with that same bewildered expression she often gave their division's secretary when the witch rambled on and on about Divination readings—like she simply could not grasp what on Earth was happening.

"What?"

"How did you know what to order?"

"I… didn't?" Hermione lifted her shoulders. "There menu isn't very extensive, Malfoy. You should know that."

"Oh, no, I am _very_ aware." His tongue swept across his lips and his eyes flickered around them to the crowded table, taking in the various patrons as they ate dishes that would never—_ever_ be palatable as far as he was concerned. "They haven't had lamb since we've been here. Trust me, I'd remember. Which begs the question, how did you know I would like it?"

Hermione slowly cocked a brow at him, the corner of her lips lifting lightly in a slow smile, and suddenly the bloom of warmth that'd washed over him when he first saw her felt like it'd morphed into a bloody inferno. Like he was actually somewhere tropical—Belize or Ibeza, as opposed to frigid, snowy Russia.

"Malfoy—seriously?" She laughed at him. That soft, tinkling, 'I might be actually flirting with you, but you'd never know it' kind of laugh. The kind that sent a jolt of desire straight to his groin and reminded him that yes, he was very much human, and yes, Granger was _definitely _as attractive as he'd previously thought.

"We've worked together for two years. I've seen what you order during luncheons. And even if I hadn't paid attention, you _do _remember we lived in the same bloody castle for nearly eight years, right? I might have loathed you back then, but I still noticed you."

_She'd._

_Noticed. _

_Him._

She'd paid attention to his habits.

She _noticed_ him!

The words echoed back to him, ringing in his ears, and before he could prevent it, a warm blush crept up his cheeks, which only seemed to further her bout of laughter. Tearing his eyes away, he snatched up his fork and hastily shoved the pierced vegetable in his mouth.

What could he say to that?

_I noticed you back then too, Granger? I _still _notice you? You're only _mildly_ annoying now. _

_Thanks for paying attention to my strange eating habits, maybe I can take you out for Chinese food sometime because I've certainly noticed you eat a lot of it._

"You're such an idiot, Malfoy." Granger nudged her shoulder against his, and out of the corner of his eye, he watched as she shook her head, turning back to her bowl of soup with a too-wide smile.

He shouldn't care.

Her attentions, albeit unexpected, shouldn't cause this sort of reaction.

But as he ate his meal, silent as a church mouse, taking in the room around them, he couldn't help but feel something akin to nervous tension form in his stomach. Tight. Clenching. Consuming.

She'd noticed him.

She'd _noticed_ him.

* * *

Dinner was pleasant.

If she considered eating in silence beside a man who looked like he had to use the loo the entire time pleasant.

She couldn't place what the issue had been. All she'd done was order him bloody dinner and an ale, but suddenly the charming, friendly man she'd come to learn over the past three days had vanished into some awkward existence.

But even this change had been better than the previous demon she used to encounter.

After a quiet meal, Hermione decided she'd spent enough time in the company of the friendly villagers, and told Malfoy she was going back to the cabin for some light reading. She'd been gifted an aged copy of children's fairy tales from Verochka, the old crone at the end of the street, and was eager to go back and translate what she could.

While the stories of make-believe never used to be in her wheel-house, her experience with _The Tale of Three Brothers_ had awakened a new way of looking at these stories of old. After all, if one of them could be true—couldn't they all?

With her thoughts focused on the best way to translate the ancient Slavic into English, Hermione hardly thought twice about Malfoy's insistence that he accompany her. Instead, she donned her parka, stuffed her hands into the magical mittens, and moved through the sleepy village towards their cabin under the darkness of the night's sky.

The air was cold—still crisp and sharp with each inhale, but she'd adjusted to it.

And surprisingly, she'd also adjusted to Malfoy's company.

Never in her wildest dreams had she ever assumed she would find a steady companionship with the blond prat—but here she was, mid-conversation as they removed their outer layers in the entryway of the tiny cabin they'd called home for nearly two weeks.

"The probability of Baba Yaga being real is undeniable, Malfoy." She unwound her scarf, knocking the bits of snow clinging to her curls over her shoulders. "Don't laugh! How can you say it's not?"

"Because she's a childhood story, Granger. Something parents tell their children so they'll listen. Like—like that bloke in the ruddy red suit you lot have." Malfoy hung up his coat with a snicker before tapping his wand to his boots, magically releasing the tightly cinched laces and toeing out of them.

"Baba Yaga is _not_ like Santa." Hermione laughed. "Look, all I am saying is that everyone assumes these childhood stories are all make-believe, hocus pocus, what will you, but I'm starting to think there is a good percentage of them based on fact."

"And all I'm saying is that you're absolutely barmy."

Before she could utter a reply, the distinct sound of tapping against the far window in the tiny kitchenette cut her words. "Post?" Hermione questioned, trying to peer through the darkness of the dimly lit room to see the owl perched outside. "Did you write Kingsley?"

"No." Draco was halfway across the cabin—not that it was hard due to its size—by the time she'd removed her boots. When he slid open the window to retrieve the letter from the owl's leg, a fresh blast of snowy air cut through the heating charms she'd placed earlier.

"It's from Yaromir." Draco turned to face Hermione. Trepidation lingered in his eyes as he examined the letter curiously, and she knew why.

This was _it._

This was likely their final chance at securing this deal.

If Yaromir declined the Ministry's offer, they would have to go home empty-handed—which wasn't an option either of them wanted.

Sliding her hands across her hips to smooth out her jumper, Hermione moved across the room quickly, mismatched socked feet thumping against the worn floor. She joined him in the little kitchenette, and curled a hand around his still clutching the letter as she lifted her eyes to catch him with a hopeful smile pulling on her lips.

"It'll be good news… he'll accept."

She knew this was more than just a work assignment for him—it was personal. She'd have been a fool not to notice. He put in too much effort, cared too deeply about the details. This was _something_ to Malfoy, and as much as she'd loathed him previously, that was part of her reason for signing on.

Because, truthfully, their work was boring.

Arguing with the Wizengamot, fighting to secure trade deals, and drafting tax laws was dry work, to say the least.

So when she saw the fire in his eyes during that meeting—saw the way he already seemed so passionate about it all… well, how could she not want to join in?

Draco nodded, teeth sinking into his lower lip as he looked down at their hands, still curled around the letter. He let loose a shaky breath with such force it tickled the small curls that framed her face.

They stayed like that, her hands wound around his, for a minute. Neither speaking, neither moving, and just as she was about to encourage him again, the soft sound of him clearing his throat pulled her eyes back up.

"I… Uh… Can I have my hands back?"

_Oh!_

"Yes, of course," Hermione babbled, a pink blush highlighting her cheeks as she pulled her hands back, stuffing them into her back pockets. "Sorry."

He laughed it off, grey eyes sparkling playfully in the soft light as he carefully tore open the letter and let the envelope fall to their feet, unfolding the parchment inside.

Her heart raced, watching his eyes flick across the paper, rapidly devouring the words before him. And slowly—at a snail's pace, really—she watched his lips lift in a smile. Wide. Toothy. Beautiful.

"He's agreeing," Draco breathed, his hand trembling when he finally looked up to her. "He's going to sign!"

Hermione let out a small noise of victory, her own expression matching his, and before she could rethink the decision, she threw her arms around his neck, pulling him against her in a fierce hug. "We did it!"

The spark was immediate, snapping from the very centre of her chest, jolting outward down every limb, and pooling in her fingertips. She could feel the electrical energy pulse, igniting every nerve ending, making her realise just how well defined his chest was.

Malfoy's arms moved around her waist, locking at her lower back, and guiding her closer until her front moulded into his. His own happy cry echoed around them as he swept her up onto the tips of her toes before swirling her about—clearly unable to contain his own enthusiasm.

Her arms pulled tighter, clinging to him as he lifted her, a loud laugh slipping off her tongue, and she tucked her head against his shoulder, fingers fisting his shirt. "Draco, put me down!" The name felt so easy—so right. She almost didn't realise she'd used it until he obliged to her command.

Lifting her head from his shoulder, she looked up to see a curious glimmer shading the silver rim that lined his irises. The sun after the storm—she'd only just found a name for that distinct metallic sheen, but now it seemed _different_—brighter somehow.

Like diamonds.

Like freshly fallen snow.

Like _home_.

Suddenly his mouth was on hers—or hers was on his. Truthfully, she'd couldn't tell who made the first move, but in that precise moment, she didn't care. His hand was at her cheek, long fingers sliding across her braid, teasing her curls. His lips felt like velvet, smooth, alluring as they guided over hers, and with a nudge of his sharp nose, she tilted her head to follow his lead.

Kissing Draco was not in her plans.

Kissing Draco was _not_ advisable.

But the moment his lips met hers, she couldn't find a single fucking reason as to why that was.

He was like liquid heroin. Addicting. Consuming. Mind-numbing. One kiss and she knew she could never find something as intoxicating as his lips.

But it was that very thing, his lips on hers, that made her realize how sudden—how _foolish_ this was. His tongue brushed over her bottom lip, dipping just briefly in her mouth, and the taste of his kiss ignited the rational side of her brain, kicking it into overdrive. Just as quickly as their lip lock began, Hermione ended it.

She pushed on his chest, scrambling to put space between her and a rather bewildered looking Malfoy.

His lips were swollen, puffy, beautifully tinted red, and the flush that covered his cheeks was awe inspiring. How one man could look so bloody alluring post-snog should have been criminal, but knowing _she_ was the cause of his disheveled state made a weird sense of pride replace her frenzy to flee.

But she shouldn't be proud!

She shouldn't care what he looked like post-snog!

She shouldn't _want_ to throw herself at him and beg him to run his mouth along her neck, to find that one spot just beneath her ear that made her body quiver.

She shouldn't want Draco _Fucking_ Malfoy.

"I… I—" she stammered like a schoolgirl trying to find a reason, _any _reason that might give her an excuse to run away. To put kilometers of distance between them so she could think rationally. So she might be able to get the lingering taste of his kiss off her tongue. So she could have a chance at coming up with some bloody reason that she shouldn't want him. Because as it was, with his kiss-swollen lips and molten silver gaze, her earlier burst of logic was fading, and she couldn't think of a single one.

"Granger." His voice was low and gravelly, her name spoken as a warning, or perhaps a prayer. She shivered, unable to hide the effect it had on her.

Her eyes flashed to the floor because she knew if she continued to look at him, she was going to fall victim to the hunger that penetrated his gaze. Thankfully, what she found at her feet was the perfect excuse to run.

"I need to send this to Kuraokami!" Bending low, she snatched the fallen letter from the floor, fingers curled tightly into the now crumped parchment. This was perfect! Sending a letter, of course. The owlery was across the village, which would give her time to collect her thoughts and the cold winter air would shock her body back into compliance_—hopefully. _

Turning on her heel, and silently praising herself for coming up with such a brilliant plan, Hermione hurried to slip into her coat, not even bothering to zip it before she stuffed her feet into her boots.

"Granger, wait!"

"I won't be long—" _Liar._

"Granger, please could you just—"

"—Don't wait up for me!"

She was out the door before Malfoy could so much as move towards her. Her hands trembled as she stuffed them into her pockets, holding her parka closed as she moved away from the cabin, nearly tripping over her own feet in her attempt to flee the scene of the crime.

She needed to pull it together.

She needed to get her head in order.

But, most importantly, she needed to stop craving the taste of his kiss.

* * *

Every time she closed her eyes, all Hermione could see was the hard planes of his chest. The lithe muscles that lay underneath milky skin. The soft pink of his scar bisecting his chest. His massive cock.

Merlin, help her.

It was an image she simply _couldn't_ _unsee_.

Draco standing in the middle of the bathroom, fingers curled around his length where it stood proudly against his abdomen, nearly touching his navel.

As she laid staring at the ceiling, she tried desperately to ignore the way the memory made heat pool between her thighs, soaking her knickers just past the point of comfortable.

And while it was obviously not the first cock she'd seen, it had been the first one that immediately kick-started her libido and made her mouth run dry. But even now, as she laid wide awake, ignoring her own physical reaction to both seeing _it _and _the-kiss-that-they-shall-never-speak-of-again_, she couldn't help the slow ebb of guilt that ate at the centre of her chest.

She hadn't meant to see it—_him_.

She was just trying to use the loo.

She didn't even know he was at the bloody cabin!

After their kiss, she'd assumed he'd fled the crime scene just as she had. Why wouldn't he? It was obviously a mistake—just a stupid, heat-of-the-moment type of situation. An '_oops I accidentally kissed you, so sorry!_' type thing.

Because that sort of thing happened _all _the bloody time.

Didn't it?

Regardless, she wasn't aware he was in the washroom until after she'd opened the door, hands already shucking down her denim trousers so she could relieve herself. Because if walking in on your stupidly handsome coworker—and former childhood enemy— in his birthday suit wasn't bad enough, doing it while removing her own pants didn't help.

To say her night hadn't gone according to plan was an understatement. She'd gone from being bitter coworkers with Malfoy to friends over the course of a week and now faced the very real prospect of being nothing more than awkward acquaintances thanks to her stupid impulses and her inability to knock on a bathroom door.

And while it shouldn't have bothered her—because Malfoy was literally _nothing_ in her life—she found that idea rather unfair.

She didn't want to lose the progress she'd made with him. They'd worked well together, which was evident in their ability to secure this trade deal. And surprisingly, she'd found a lot of commonality between her and the blond prat. They liked many of the same things and had managed to have intelligent, _meaningful_ conversation.

And Merlin help her, she _actually_ enjoyed his company.

So, something as silly as accidentally kissing and seeing his… well, _you know_? Well, that shouldn't matter!

Pushing out of the bed, her bare feet hit the floor. She grabbed the comforter and wrapped it around her shoulders as she moved towards the couch with a newfound purpose.

They needed to talk—no, they were going to talk about what happened between them—like the rational adults they were, and they were going to get passed their transgressions. They were _going _to be friends!

She moved around the couch, the comforter sweeping along the floor behind her like a cape and she reached out to smack the side of his leg. "Sit up."

Malfoy's eyes snapped open at the touch, and he fumbled to pull his own blanket over his chest as his brow furrowed. "W-What?"

"Sit _up_." She wedged between the couch and the coffee table, claiming the space in front of him on the furniture. "We need to talk."

Draco rose slowly, lean form poking out from the fluffy comforter and he reached up, carding his fingers through his damp hair to push back the blond fringe. "Honestly? I'd rather not—_especially_ not at this time of night."

"It's not even nine, Grannie." Hermione abstained from rolling her eyes, but only because she knew that if she pushed him too hard, he might return to his old, standoffish ways. Shifting her own blanket around her shoulders tighter to combat the cold, she perched on the edge of the table. "Look, we clearly need to discuss what happened."

"No, we don't."

"_Yes,_ we do."

"_No_, we certainly don't. If we could refrain from bringing it up _ever again_, that would be preferable."

She would have laughed at his candor had it not been for the sudden way he averted his gaze, the hand perched on the top of his head moving to cover the back of his neck in that telltale awkward rub. Reaching out, she poked a hand out of her covers to rest against his knee. "Malfoy."

She waited for him to lift his eyes, praying that the gentle touch might show him she was open, willing to discuss what happened without embarrassment, and ease the tension that had appeared since their ill-fated kiss.

Clearly, however, he had other plans.

Draco scooted back on the couch, putting more space between them and knocking her hand off his knee nearly as quickly as it had landed. His hands curled over his kneecaps, long fingers stretching down his legs as he seemed to curl inward from her touch.

"Malfoy, will you stop being a fucking prat and _look_ at me!"

His eyes lifted at her snap, wide with surprise, but he didn't dare utter a word.

"I just… I didn't…" She stumbled over her words, mind moving quickly through various ways in which she could apologize for her transgression, but every one of them felt too rehearsed—too insincere. Because while she hadn't meant to walk in on him—seeing every inch of that beautiful body he had hidden under pressed oxfords and thick jumpers—she didn't necessarily _regret _that she had.

She was human after all!

And even _she _could admit Draco was handsome—strictly speaking, as his friend, of course.

Because that's what they were now, right?

_Friends._

With a deep breath, she steadied the uncertainty in her voice and summoned her courage. "Malfoy, we're both adults."

"Oh, fuck," he sighed, lifting his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"And as such, we should be able to have a rational conversation about what occurred. It was an accident, one that I will take full ownership of. I hadn't realised you were in the loo. Had I known, I would have never, _ever_ burst in."

"Granger, can we not?" He winced as he looked up to her, hand covering his lips, brows lifting. "I'd very much like to forget any of this happened."

"Well, I certainly can't act like it didn't." Scoffing, she lowered her blanket, laying her hands over one another in her lap like she often did during negotiations. It was her power pose: stiff spine, feet flat on the floor, hands stacked on top of one another neatly. "Malfoy, I saw you naked."

"There is _literally_ no need to remind me."

"You're hardly the first bloke I've seen bare, so let's not get ahead of ourselves here. I mean… you _might_ be the largest, but it all happened so fast, I didn't really good a good look."

Draco groaned, his eyes drifting shut, and even in the darkened room, Hermione could make out the distinct crimsoning of his cheeks. "And exactly which part of that is supposed to make this any less awkward, Granger?" He cracked open his eyes with a heavy sigh, manicured brow quirked. "Because as of right now, I kind of want to wander off in the snow and catch hypothermia."

"Gods, are you always this… this—"

"Rational?"

"Ehh… try dramatic." Hermione pursed her lips, shaking her head. "Look, this is really not that big of a deal."

It was his turn to scoff, the sharp noise cutting through the room and sliding down her spine with indignation as she watched him stiffen on the couch. It was almost as if she could see him rebuilding the walls they'd broken through. Brick by brick, she watched his defences raise, guarding off the wizard she'd come to know over the past week from the world.

"That's easy for you to say considering you weren't the naked one in this situation," Draco deadpanned, leaning forward to plant his elbows on the tops of his thighs, his spine arching as he lowered his head to run his fingers through his hair.

She was losing him.

What seemed to be her sole chance at bridging the cavernous rift that had been long present was slipping between her fingertips, and she knew if she didn't do something—and fast, she might never be able to get to know the man he had become. The one who hosted tea parties for his god-daughter, who fixed broken dolls, and kicked quaffles with kids. Who read Shakespeare and could discuss the practicality of Fairy Tales.

"So, that's it then? You seeing me naked will fix this?"

He froze. His hand was still on the back of his head, blond locks betwixt his fingers, and she was fairly certain he didn't even breath for almost a minute.

"Because if that's all takes, fine." Her hands moved to the hem of her cotton shirt and she quickly pulled it over her head, letting it fall beside her on the coffee table with zero hesitation. Despite the heating charms, the frigid winter air instantly prickled her skin, causing her nipples to grow taut.

"Salazar's sack, Granger. What the bloody hell are you—_Oh gods_!" His hand rose to his brow, shielding his gaze as Draco reached blindly towards the table beside her, palm slapping loudly against the worn wood. "Please, for the love of—"

Ignoring his pleas, Hermione rose from the table, comforter left to pool at her feet, and she shimmied from the flannel pyjama bottoms that hung loosely around her hips. Kicking the discarded bottoms behind her, Hermione lifted her arms out beside her. "Look! it's not a big deal—see, I'm naked. If you look, we can just move along and things will go back to normal."

"There is absolutely _nothing_ normal about what you're doing! Merlin's cock, can you please just—"

"No! This is _fine_. We're even now!"

Dropping his hand, his head snapped up towards her, eyes wide, and based on the way he absolutely refused to divert his gaze lower than her chin, he was bound and determined not to look at her body so publically on display. "No, we _really_ aren't because you didn't bloody just walk in on me naked, you idiot. I was wanking!"

Her brows made a slow climb up her forehead, head cocked to the side as she tried to process his confession. "What...? Why would you be—"

"Oh Merlin, you're fucking helpless." Draco sighed, shoulders sagging as he took a slow, deep breath. "Look, can you please just put on some clothes? We can discuss _whatever_ you'd like as long as you have trousers on."

Her mind struggled through reasons as she watched him pick up her discarded blouse, loosely holding the threadbare fabric between his fingers as he held it up towards her, eyes fixed on her painted toes.

She had been friends with two men since she was eleven years old—this was hardly her first experience with _this_ topic, but his reasoning left her befuddled. They were in the middle of bloody Russia, Draco had hardly said a word to any of the local villagers outside of what was necessary, so it wasn't like there was a witch who'd caught his eye.

The one time she'd walked in on Harry had been after he and Ginny had a late night visit, but based on the lack of footprints in the snow, Draco hadn't entertained a witch alone in the cabin except for…

"_Oh..."_

Her eyes went wide, the slow sinking realisation that _she_ was the cause of his need for relief washed over her like a slow rolling tide. Warmth radiated from the tips of her ears, until she was certain even her toes held evidence of her blush and she gulped.

Because suddenly, she realised how fucking poor of an idea this had all been.

Demanding they discuss what she saw.

Trying to force a friendship.

And oh merlin... she was still _very_ naked in front of him.

And all of that coupled with the fact they'd actually _snogged_ not ten yards from there they sat hit her like a runaway Hogwarts express.

Snatching her shirt from his outstretched palm, Hermione fumbled backwards, her mind already swirling with ways she could secure an overseas portkey at nine at night on a Friday. Surely she had some favor she could call in!

Tripping over her own feet, Hermione over corrected her misstep only to walk backwards into the coffee table. A loud yelp slipped from her throat as her knees buckled, and before she could even think about which side of her body she wanted to land on the furniture—her arse, or her hip—she felt a set of strong hands curl around her waist and tug her forward until her momentum crashed into something equally as hard as as table, but much warmer.

Her hands rested against his chest, fingers flexing over the soft skin that ran along his shoulders, and she gulped as she drug her eyes up to find his wide eyes staring down at her.

She should have said thank you and apologized for being so bloody daft.

She should have untangled herself from his hold and hidden in the bathroom until dawn broke.

She _should have_ put distance between them.

But, instead, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

There was no debating who initiated the kiss the second time around, but it was obvious Draco held little objection by the way he responded.

Pulling her body against his, one hand fanned across her upper back, the other sliding down her spine until it found her backside.

The frantic energy that had fueled the liplock earlier returned with a vengeance, and suddenly it was all teeth and tongues as Draco dragged her into his lap, hips jutting upwards, grinding the part of his body she'd only gotten a brief glimpse of earlier.

Hermione gasped, her hands fisting in his hair as she felt him prod against her aching quim through the thin layer of his sleep pants. It had been a long time since she'd been in this position—_several_ months—but she was suddenly very thankful for not having given up her routine of taking her monthly potion.

His hands forged unforgiving paths across her sides, fingers sliding across every dip and curve of her supple frame. Caressing her chest, teasing her nipples with soft pinches, he cupped her breasts tenderly, as if to feel the weight of them against his palm. He kissed trails down her neck, biting and licking at her shoulders, tonguing the scar that his aunt gave her almost a decade prior.

Each kiss and touch felt hurried, as if he was scared she might change her mind at any minute and push him away.

But there was no way she could part so easily with his kiss—not for a second time.

Sliding her hand down his chest, she traced his scar, zig zagging over the hard lines of muscle to end at the elastic band of his pyjama pants. She felt him stiffen as she dragged her index finger beneath the band, testing the fabric, awaiting an adverse reaction to her boldness, but when none came, she slipped her hand inside.

"_Granger,"_ he groaned against her shoulder, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin as she curled her fingers around his length. He felt larger than she'd than thought from sight alone, but perhaps that brief look hadn't done him justice. As much as she longed to spend time studying him, committing his form to memory as she traced every inch of his skin with her tongue, tonight wasn't about slow love making nor the beginnings of some sort of romance.

There was a need—a burning desire to possess one another—that clearly replaced all their inhibitions. It was as if years upon years of strife had finally given way to this singular moment and neither was willing to veer off course.

Withdrawing him from his pyjamas, she stroked his length between their hips, preparing him for what they both knew was next. Rising up on her knees, Hermione scooted closer until she bracketed his hips and she pulled back to watch his face as she brushed the head of his cock through her sodden folds.

He hissed a groan in response, his eyes fluttering closed, and she _almost_ came from that image alone, from the look of pure bliss masking his sharp features. "Malfoy, help me." Her voice was syrupy, thick with need for something only he was capable of providing her.

Grey eyes flashed open, and though the blackness of his pupils ate up nearly all of the colour, the hint of metallic still sheened. Storm clouds with a silver lining. She gasped when his hand dove between them and took over guiding him to the most intimate part of her body until the head of his cock notched against her core.

Gripping his shoulders, she held her breath as she slowly lowered herself onto his cock, taking inch by inch until her hips seated firmly against his, and the entirety of his length filled her.

It was borderline painful—she was so utterly _full—_but it was that rewarding caress of pleasure that accompanied the sharp sting of the stretch that spurred her hips to roll, seeking to amplify the slow beginnings of bliss.

"Fuck Granger."

"H-Hermione," she stammered, correcting him as she lifted her hips in a small rise, before sinking until he was deeply nestled in her once more. "Use my first name."

A lecherous smile accompanied his non-verbal reply of thrusting his hips upward into her, and she gasped when she felt the head of his cock bottom out inside her. "Whatever you say, _Hermione."_

The way her said her name should be illegal. The deep, rumbling baritone, the way he almost crooned it as he drove his cock inside her over and over and over again. It was all Hermione could do to hang onto his shoulders and direct the wave of pleasure that rolled over every inch of her body.

Soon, the lewd sound of their bodies joining overtook the primal noises that danced off their tongues, and just when she wasn't certain she would physically be able to stay on top of him any longer, Draco took control.

He rolled her backwards on the couch until her head rested on the pillow. His hand curled around her flank, over her hips, and down her thigh until it could hook underneath her knee to push it towards her chest.

The pressure of his hips, grinding against her, and sudden change of depth left her reeling, breathless, as she fought to stay afloat in the sea of unadulterated bliss he tore from deep within her body. Each push from his hips drove her closer, and closer towards her demise.

"M-Malfoy—Fuck, Draco _there!"_ she cried, begging into the emptiness of their tiny little cabin as she clung to his shoulders. Her nails left crescents on the milky skin lining his shoulders as he hit parts of her she didn't even know bloody exsisted—let along felt _so fucking good._

Draco responded in kind, his hips snapping harder, faster until she wasn't certain she could remember how to breathe through the rapid waves of ecstacy that quaked through her body like tremors preceding an earthquake.

"That's is, Hermione." Leaning down, his forehead pressed into the pillow beside her head, his lips ghosting over the shell of her ear. "Come apart for me."

As if awaiting his request, her body complied. She arched off the lumpy couch cushions, her thighs tightening around his hips, trying to hold him deep inside her as a white hot heat burst behind her lids to make way for a wave of technicolour that poured from the universe surrounding them.

Her world felt like a kaleidoscope—twisting and turning with new shapes and colours—until she wasn't sure which direction was up and which was down. The only thing that mattered was the wizard between her thighs.

She felt Draco stiffen above her, his hips grinding firmly against hers as his cock pulsed, spilling his seed deep inside her body, and with three final thrusts—as if under some primal instinct to stake his claim to her body—Draco withdrew himself to fall onto the couch beside her.

Hermione lay boneless, her legs still spread, evidence of their coupling dripping from her body and onto the shabby couch. While she knew she should have covered up, or at the very least grabbed her wand and cleaned up, she simply couldn't.

Her limbs felt heavy, as if laden with lead, and the truth was, she worried that if she moved, this moment might forever be lost.

So they laid beside one another, only the rapid sound of them gulping lungfuls of air filling the room as the slow realisation of what they'd just done began to wash over them.

She'd shagged Malfoy. Her childhood enemy. Her irritable coworker. Her… friend?

"Gran—er… Hermione?"

She felt the couch shift beside her, and she slowly turned her head on the pillow towards him, watching as he sat up, fingers slipping through his sweaty blond hair nervously.

"I… uh… Should we…?"

An incredulous laugh bubbled up her throat. "So _now_ you want to talk?"

Draco's lips lifted, a lopsided smile washing over his features, crinkling the corners of his eyes as he peered down at her through the darkness. "I mean… don't you think we ought to?"

Lifting her shoulders in a small shrug, she reached out, running her index finger across the beginning of his scar, tracing the pink line through his pecs and down over his ribs. "No. I don't." The reply was honest, because as much as she _did_ want to have a conversation with him about what this meant for their friendship—their future—she also knew now was not the time. "Not right now, at least."

Tomorrow was Christmas. They had their respective homes to return to and obligations to fulfill, and she knew that if they broached that topic now, she wouldn't be able to think of anything else while she was supposed to be enjoying her time with her make-shift family.

Draco leaned into her touch, his body turning to allow her inspection. "Tomorrow then? After dinner, of course. I could come to your place…"

"To talk?"

"Among other things… if you're interested."

Her fingers paused on his abdomen, hovering on the line just above his navel, and she let her eyes drift up to find his once again. Above her sat the man she'd come to know over the course of the week. The charming, funny, and interesting wizard. She would be lying if she said she wasn't interested—not _just_ in shagging him again, but maybe getting to know him more. Figuring out just who he'd become since their youth.

Though, shagging was _definitely _on the table—preferably more than once.

"Yeah. I'd like that," she said with a small nod, the corners of her lips lifting in a slow smile. "I'll try to remember trousers this time though."

"Well… let's not get _too_ hasty." Draco sank down on his elbow, propped up just beside her, and his free hand moved to smooth back her curls. "I think I might prefer you without them."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

And we've reached the end!

I hope you've all enjoyed this fic-and most importantly, I hope you especially enjoyed it BiscuitsforPotter.

Happy Christmas my dear.

until next time xx


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